


Reunion

by RogueTwelve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assassin Arya, Everyone is questioning their life choices, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Rating May Change, Reunions, Tags Are Hard, The Faceless Men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9823049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueTwelve/pseuds/RogueTwelve
Summary: When Arya appears at Winterfell, gravely wounded and fleeing someone whose identity she refuses to confide, Jon must come to terms with the fact that she is no longer the little girl he left behind all those years ago. And perhaps he has changed too.Or an alternate take on events nearing the end of season 6.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first work on this site. Bear with me, I'm not super reliable at updating and I'm not 100% sure where this fic is going, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> Though i am a book reader, this fic takes place towards the end of season 6 of the tv-show but borrows from the events of the book-verse as well. Hopefully it won't end up being too confusing.
> 
> It has always bothered me that Arya fell into a filthy waterway with wounds that would have been fatal in what essentially amounts to the medieval ages (at least medically) and yet suffered no ill effects. I took that idea and ran with it.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated :)

It had been at least a fortnight since she had left Braavos. Or at least Arya thought as much. She had long since lost track of time.

It was hard to focus on much of anything these days. Much of her world seemed thick with fog and her thoughts raced constantly, flitting from one topic to the next.

She had defeated the Waif. Of that she was certain. They had battled in the darkness so Arya could never really know the true outcome, but she knew what a serious blow felt like and she had landed several. Whether the Waif had died mattered not, there would always be more Faceless Men. She would never be safe. 

Jaqen H’ghar had given her a second chance and she had not been able to take it. She could not truly become No One, her family was too important to her. But in choosing to remain the girl from Winterfell she had doomed herself. She would never again be free of being hunted by the assassins who wore the faces of others. Her only chance at survival was to become anonymous and keep moving. The irony was not lost on her.

At least she could still be someone to the only person that it still mattered to.

In Braavos she thought that she had longed for home. But through the many restless nights of her journey thus far, she had all the more time to think about what home really meant. It wasn’t Winterfell with its empty stone walls as she had thought. Home was with the one person other than her father who had ever come close to understanding her. Home was with Jon Snow.

She was headed to The Wall. Once she found Jon she could pass for a boy, she’d been able to do so since she was a child. Her training at the house of Black and White had only improved her skills of deception. It would almost be too easy.

She just had to make it to Castle Black first.

It had to have been more than a fortnight, much more. She just couldn’t remember, the days all slipping together. After her fight she had left Braavos immediately, having no choice. She had stolen money from a rich unsuspecting bystander and claimed passage on the first ship she found sailing for Westeros. She had no time to barter for a cabin or find a ship bound for White Harbor. Though she knew Jaqen had always held a soft spot for her since their days at Harenhall, he was still responsible to the Many Faced God and therefore someone would be sent after her eventually. Instead she had boarded a small filthy barge headed for Sisterton and paid dearly for the privilege.

The journey had been long, Arya knew that. Before, she had always enjoyed her time on the open water but this journey was different - her belly ached and she felt overheated no matter how long she stood in the mist from the sea. She could only keep food down with sheer determination and as of late even that was failing. She spent most of her nights awake and alone below decks, tossing and turning and wishing for land. Upon arrival she hadn’t even had time to rest. If she knew one thing it was that she had to keep moving.

Upon arrival she boarded another ship. A small trading vessel headed North for White Harbor. Though she wished she could avoid more time at sea, she knew it was the quickest way. And she needed it – her strength was fading and she hadn’t even gotten to the hard part yet. 

Finally on land that was vaguely familiar, she’d stolen a horse and another man’s purse, though this one was much lighter than the one she had stolen in Braavos. It mattered not. She would have little use for money as she wouldn’t be taking the King’s Road. She needed to avoid other people as much as possible and therefore would likely never see the inside of an inn.

She slept in her saddle when she could and tucked in the reeds beside the banks of the White Knife when her horse needed rest. It irked her to no end that she was unable to keep any sort of watch, but as the days passed her eyes drifted closed more and more often, and it was a struggle just to concentrate enough to stay upright.

At first she had resolved herself to live off of the late autumn berries she was able to scavenge and water from the river. Eating food had lasted a day, drinking only two more. Now anything that so much as entered her throat would cause her entire body to convulse painfully in revulsion. 

It was only a few weeks ride to the wall, but at this rate she wouldn’t last more than a few days.

Wearily she pulled her tunic up, examining the damage beneath. Her escape from Braavos had reopened the wounds that Lady Crane had so expertly stitched closed and Arya was so hopeless with a needle and thread that she hadn’t even tried to repair the damage.

For the most part her skin had patched itself together well enough on it’s own, but Arya knew the stink of infection and she’d had no way of stopping its spread.

For all of the training she had in the art of death, she had learned nothing of how to sustain her own life. Yes, her life was full of cruel ironies now.

No matter how much she loathed to admit it, Arya Stark was dying.

She’d reached the fork in the river a day ago and now she could catch glimpses of the King's Road to the west through the trees. Through the haze in her head she was vaguely aware that she had chosen the wrong fork of the river. It was the most recognizable point on her journey so far. Jon and Robb had taken her to these woods often when she had begged them to bring her on their adventures.

She was less than a days ride from Winterfell. Obviously her subconscious was bringing her home. She supposed that would be the better place to die anyway. At least here she’d be close to her father, whether the castle was still in the hands of the Boltons or had been taken by some other unworthy house.

She noted vaguely that her vision was darkening around the edges and that she could only feel the pain in her abdomen if she really thought about it. She was no healer, but she knew that that couldn’t be a good sign. The end was nearing.

As her horse steered itself towards the road, obviously tired of plodding it’s way through the thick brush, the world began to tilt on its axis.

Arya did her best to right herself, and succeeded briefly, but 50 feet down the road she lost her battle, tumbling from her saddle as the world went black.

She didn’t even feel her head hit the rock. All she saw was Jon Snow’s smile.

***  
Jon Snow was never meant to be a king.

His brother Robb had been raised to be a lord. Bran and Rickon would have received lessons on ruling as well when they were of an age to understand. As a bastard son all Jon had ever been prepared for was a life on the Wall.

But now he ruled the North and he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to do so.

Everything was so complicated. He had smallfolk to feed, lords and knights to command and appease, justice to serve. Even now Ser Davos Seaworth was calling upon him to deal with the Red Priestess for her crimes. 

Jon was torn.

On the one hand, the atrocities the lady stood accused of were awful and deserved swift punishment. On the other, the woman was the only reason he still drew breath. He didn’t understand how he could sentence her to death when he owed her his life. But at the same time that was not an adequate answer to his people.

It was giving him quite the headache.

Ser Davos continued to plead his case as they walked along just outside the Great Keep. Shipments of food and other goods were being brought in from the Winter Town and Jon had planned to check them just as his father would have. It was important for his subjects to see that he was making an effort.

Jon continued to nod his head noncommittally, half listening to his comrade’s pleas when a small commotion near the East Gate caught his eye. 

Two men at arms were entering the gate looking weary. One cradled a small bundle in roughspun wool to his chest, a lifeless arm hanging down and swaying with each step. As they entered, a nearby woman from the winter town began to weep, obviously triggered by a lose of her own.

“What’s this?” Jon asked, approaching the men with a heavy heart.

“A girl, Your Grace,” the lead guard bowed his head slightly, “we found her not far from the castle walls. Looks to have suffered a fall. She can’t be much more than four-and-ten. The men thought we should bring her back so that if she had any family they might know. There’s nothing worse than not knowing.” He added quietly.

Jon nodded, knowing that feeling all too well. “Put her with the others and start spreading the word-“ He was distracted by a sharp whine from Ghost and turned to find the direwolf lying in the snow, his snout buried beneath his great paws. It was odd behavior for sure, but his wolf could just be reacting to his master’s unease. The gods knew he’d been feeling off for days.

Shaking his head he turned back to the men to complete his orders when a glint of metal at the girl’s hip caught his eye. “Hold on,” he muttered, stepping forward to take a closer look. It was a sword - a skinny little thing by the look of it, oddly matching its master. The handle was so familiar to him that his breath caught in his throat. He unsheathed the blade but he already knew.

Dropping the sword in the snow he brushed the bloody, tangled hair from the girl’s face, praying to the old gods and the new that there would be no hint of familiarity, just a common girl who had had the misfortune of stealing a sword that had once belonged to his younger sister. But it wasn’t to be so.

She was so much older than he remembered. Her child-like features had thinned out, giving way to angled cheekbones and small scars lined her face much like the ones that now marked his own. But it was unmistakable, this was the same face that had haunted his dreams for years, ever since he had learned of his father’s death and that his precious little sister had gone missing.

“Fetch the Red Woman,” he commanded without turning around.

“But Your Grace,” Ser Davos stammered, completely at a loss for what had just happened.

“I said bring me Melisandre. Now.” Jon roared. The Onion Knight muttered something, but Jon could hear his heavy footsteps receding in the snow. 

Jon snatched his sister away from the guard and cradled her small body to his chest. She may have grown taller with time but she was just as thin as he remembered. Without any explanation to those around him, he set off to his quarters at a full run, Ghost following at his heels. He knew that speed would have no baring on her fate now but he needed to get away. He couldn’t face all of his men who looked on him to be strong.

There was no way that he could be strong through this.

At the door he sent his squire to bring him a bowl of warm water and the softest cloth that he could find. The boy gave him a weary look as only befit seeing a man caring a bloodied young girl into his personal quarters, but complied without comment. 

Jon laid Arya gently onto his bed and pulled up a chair to sit beside her. Ghost hopped onto the bed as well and curled into the young woman’s side with a soft whimper. When his squire returned Jon dismissed the boy and set to work.

As gently as he could, he began to wipe away the blood and dirt dried to her face. As more of her skin was revealed he saw that she had grown into a beautiful young woman, her Stark features becoming more prominent with time. She looked the perfect picture of how he had always imagined his aunt Lyanna, her features refined and elegant but still with a hint of wildness.

When her face and neck came clean he began to work on her hair, gently removing the crusted grime that had matted it together. How many times had he imagined mussing up that hair like he had when she was a child? It was one of his fondest memories of her as a young girl, how even if she had been in a terrible mood, she couldn’t stop herself from giggling and giving him one of her signature smiles. His gut clenched at the thought that he would never see that little grin again.

With a flush of embarrassment he realized that he had tears running down his cheeks. He wiped them hurriedly with his rough woolen sleeve. He hadn’t shed a single tear for Rickon, though that had been in the heat of battle. Still, the death of his baby brother had been different. It had given him the resolve to fight, to destroy Ramsey Bolton and take back his home no matter the cost.

This had just broken him.

With his free hand he took hers and held it to his cheek. It was still so warm to the touch. He never should have stopped looking for her, if he had just tried a little harder his men might have found her still alive. She had been so close. 

After they had taken back Winterfell Jon had immediately given orders to his men for his remaining siblings to be found. No one living knew anything about the fate of Bran after he and Rickon had disappeared. They must have been separated at some point but only the gods knew how or why. Sam had very briefly met him, but then his brother had vanished beyond the wall. For all anyone in Westeros knew Bran was lost and presumed dead.

Arya had been a shade easier to trace. He knew that she was being taken to the Night’s Watch after her father’s death. From there she had been taken to Harrenhal and after nearly a year of hard labor had escaped and spent some time amongst the Brotherhood without Banners, only to be taken once again by Sandor Clegane. Brienne of Tarth had met the pair near the Eyrie and fought the Hound, but when the fight had ended his sister was nowhere to be found. At that point it was as if she had simply disappeared off the face of Westeros. Not a soul had seen or heard from her in nearly 2 years and just like her brother she was presumed dead. Everyone had come to the same conclusion - it was impossible to stay that invisible for so long.

It had always made no sense to Jon. She had endured such hardship, there was no reason for her to suddenly just die after she had been set free. She had obviously learned to take care of herself after surviving that long and so he had always held out hope that she would one day be found. But winter had arrived and the Night King’s army was coming and he had been pressed to redistribute his resources elsewhere. He had reluctantly complied.

Now he wished with every fiber of his being that he hadn’t.

The door creaked open behind him and he turned to find Ser Davos standing in the doorway looking infuriated, the Lady Melisandre at his side with her wrists in chains. “Close the door,” Jon ordered softly. He placed the cloth back into the dish and moved it to a side table, but he didn’t let go of his sister’s hand. He couldn’t.

He could tell that the Onion Knight was itching to speak, but Jon cut him off, beating him to it. “This is my sister, Arya Stark.” He spoke quietly, not trusting his voice if he were to raise it any louder. “I do not know how it is that she came to be here, I only know that you need to bring her back.”

He saw Ser Davos soften at his words, sympathy clouding his eyes, but his body remained tense and unyielding. The Red Woman took a small step forward and opened her mouth as if to speak, but Jon held up a hand silencing her.

He stood, and his chair made a loud scrapping noise as it was pushed back. He made sure to keep a firm grip on his sister’s small hand, but he needed to be standing to get his point across.

“This is your chance at absolution. You have done some truly despicable things in the name of your devotion and you deserve to be punished. However if you do this, if you bring her back to me, that is a debt I can never hope to repay.” John closed his eyes, praying for strength, then looked the priestess right in the eye. “If she is dead then I cannot truly live and whatever plan your Lord of Light has for me has already failed. Please – I’m begging you.”

Melisandre took another hesitant step forward, then paused looking back over her shoulder waiting for Ser Davos’ reaction. When the old man didn’t move, she approached the bed slowly and placed her hand lightly on Arya’s pale forehead. The woman closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, raising her face toward the sky. When her eyes reopened Jon thought he saw something strange flash through them, but it only lasted an instant before disappearing and he shook it off as a trick of the light.

“Yes, it seems that the Lord of Light has plans for your young sister, and they remain incomplete. But I cannot bring her back,” Melisandre said calmly taking a step away from the bed.

At this, the murder returned to Davos’ eyes and he reached for the hilt of his sword. Jon had half a mind to let him.

The red priestess ignored the men and pulled back her shoulders, standing taller in defiance. “I cannot bring her back, because she has not left. Your sister is alive Jon Snow. You are in need of a maester, not my magic.”

Jon’s eyes widened and he hurriedly turned back to the bed. She was right, Arya’s hand was not still warm beneath his fingers, it was burning hot. And if he watched closely he could see the slight rise and fall of her chest though the movement was shallow and far too slow.

Both men remained frozen in shock for a moment before Jon regained his composure. “Well, what are you waiting for? You heard the woman, go find the Maester!”

Melisandre followed Davos from the room with an odd, almost hungry, look on her face. Left alone Jon didn’t know what to do with himself. Knowing she was alive, his sister now looked even more fragile to him and he wasn’t sure how that was possible.

He once again grabbed the cloth and bowl. The water was now filthy but he was loath to leave her side even for an instant. Wringing out the square of fabric he pressed it gently to her pale forehead hoping that he may be able to coax some of the fever out of her.

A soft moan pulled his eyes to her face. Her parched lips had opened slightly, but her lids remained closed, her eyes rolling back and forth fervently underneath.

“Arya,” he whispered softly in her ear, stroking her dark hair back from her face. There was no response for a moment, then her eyelids flickered open as she inhaled sharply then winced.

Her eyes searched the room hazily before landing on his own. Her emotions flashed quickly across her face, but even after all of these years he was able to read them as if they were written out for him in a book. There was a childlike hope that he recognized from when she had been a girl, followed by a flicker of fear just before a weary resignation took hold. Her hand twitched by her side as if she were trying to lift it but she hadn’t the strength. Quickly he grasped it within his own and brought it to his lips to place a gentle kiss on the heel of her palm but her expression didn’t soften.

She opened her mouth as if to speak but only a quiet croaking noise escaped her parched throat. He dug under his cloak retrieving a skin of drinking water and gently held it to her lips. As the barest trickle dribbled through she wretched horribly, then fell back, her entire body spasming in pain. He dropped the flask to the floor, his hands fluttering uselessly over her as he tried in vain to calm her. Once the pain seemed to subside he fell back into his chair his thumb stroking her cheek with what he hoped was reassurance.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered over and over again, hoping that if he repeated it enough he might be able to convince the gods, though at the moment he was having a hard enough time convincing himself.

The door to his chamber flew open once more and in walked Winterfell’s new maester with Ser Davos following close behind. The maester was an elderly man, nearly bald and spotted from many years in the sun. John deeply regretted not having learned the names of his new household, but these had been tumultuous times and with new members arriving everyday from strongholds throughout the North he simply hadn’t had the time.

“Who do we have here?” the maester asked quietly, taking up a post at the bedside just behind Jon’s shoulder.

Jon opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by a very weak voice. “Mercy,” the girl in front of him gasped out. She swallowed thickly then tried again. “Mercy Snow. A maid… Karhold”

Jon stared at the girl for a moment questioning his own mind. Could she be just some baseborn girl from the North? Was he so desperate to see his baby sister that he had invented an identity for this poor soul?

He could feel Davos’ eyes boring into him, probably questioning his sanity. Jon looked at her one more time, really asking himself if he recognized the girl, and then he knew. It was the eyes. His father’s eyes, his own eyes, the strong grey eyes of his baby sister that had had him wrapped around her little finger before she had so much as learned to speak.

This was definitely Arya Stark.

So why would she say otherwise? Especially in her own home?

He felt the lightest of squeezes on his hand and was brought back to her eyes, eyes that were now pleading with him to remain silent.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek but nodded to the maester, giving him permission to continue.

“The girl is dehydrated, malnourished,” the old man stated. As he leaned forward over the table he brushed his hand over her forehead and pulled it back quickly as if from a hot stove “ and burning with fever.” The old man shifted further down the table, his hands hovering over the hem of Arya’s tunic. “If I may?” the maester asked his king.

Jon nodded. Davos averted his eyes but Jon couldn’t look away. The maester shifted the rough wool of Arya’s tunic upward as gently as he could, but Arya was still left whimpering, trying to twist away but having nowhere to go.

Jon squeezed her hand and gave a soft kiss to the side of her temple before pulling back to assess the damage.

What he saw took his breath away.

Though his sister had always been thin, she now lay emaciated, her ribs pressing so far through her skin it looked like they might cut through at the slightest pressure. Despite that, her belly was bloated and discolored a sickly swirl of purples, greens, and yellows. At the center shone 4 bright scars, so similar to his own that had been inflicted by the men he thought were his brothers. The wounds were crisscrossed with what had once been fine stitch work, but the wounds had been pulled, obviously reopened at least once. One still gaped even now near one edge, the skin crusted over with blackened blood and pus.

It sickened Jon to try to think of who could have done this to his baby sister. Yes, she was a baby no longer, in fact nearly a woman grown, but these wounds were obviously no accident. Someone had stabbed her with intent to kill.

He knew that her life must have been rough since her disappearance from King’s Landing. He’d even imagined her dead a thousand times over. But never in his darkest dreams had he imagined this brutality.

He was snapped out of his reverie by a click of the maester’s tongue and looked up to find the man shaking his head sadly.

After gently replacing Arya’s tunic, he took Jon gently by the arm and led him towards the door where his sister might not overhear.

“The wounds have long since festered. The girl is filled with death. Milk of the poppy will ease her passing.”

Jon shook his head vehemently. “No. You will not give up on her.”

“Your Grace,” the maester sighed. “This Mercy is in a great deal of pain, she has been unable to eat or drink for some time. It would be a kindness.”

“You misunderstand me,” Jon let a rare bit of irritation show, “you will save the girl should you wish to remain in my service. Am I making myself clear?”

The maester turned to Ser Davos exasperatedly, likely hoping to commiserate on the king’s sudden madness. He found the knight standing firm, his right hand resting on the hilt of his longsword, one eyebrow raised.

The maester sighed, resigned. He shuffled to the leather bag of supplies he had brought from his chambers and handed Jon a small bottle. Jon recognized the opaque white liquid within and nearly shouted with rage.

The maester stopped him by placing a gnarled hand on his arm. “Just a small swallow, you’ll not want her awake for this next part.” Jon’s shoulder’s relaxed and he nodded his head in understanding. “I must return to my solar to retrieve more of my equipment. I should be back within the hour.” 

Jon was already heading back to the bed, but he raised his hand to show that he’d heard. Reaching his sister he carefully tilted her head from the pillow and cradled it with one hand while bringing the bottle to her mouth.

Arya kept her lips sealed tight, her gaze turning accusing.

“Drink Little Wolf, just a little. It’ll help.” He begged her softly. Her eyes lightened at the pet name he had given to her as a child but now she looked more conflicted than ever. When she still didn’t accept the liquid he sighed. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I swear it, by the old gods and the new.” 

At this statement Ghost lifted his head from by her side, the girl and the wolf locked eyes and Ghost gently licked her arm in reassurance. Arya’s eyes filled with tears and she gave the slightest of nods. Slowly, her lips cracked open and a small dribble of liquid made its way into her mouth. Arya’s forehead creased in fierce determination as she gagged several times but was able to keep the medicine down. Jon sighed with relief and gently laid her head back to the pillow. He mussed her hair absentmindedly and within minutes her eyelids had flickered closed as her mind drifted off into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry everyone! As I had mentioned in a previous comment I suffered a head injury that put me completely out of commission for a few months and then I spent the last month in Indonesia without a computer. But I'm back! Hopefully this chapter doesn't disappoint!

Jon Snow could not remember a time when he had felt this exhausted. He hadn’t left Arya’s bedside in three days – since the Maester had allowed him to come back into the room after finishing his work. Arya had looked so small and pale, a fine sheen of sweat glimmering across her forehead. Truth be told she did not look any better now. 

Arya had not woken since and was being sustained only by honeyed water dribbled through her lips. Watching her waste away reminded him so much of his last days at Winterfell following Bran’s fall. It was not a pleasant memory.

Jon’s body ached from sitting cramped in the armchair by the bed for so long. He didn’t think he’d even been this sore when Melisandre had brought him back from death. With a sigh, he stretched his arms above his head and stood to pace toward the window, patting Ghost as he walked by. Even the direwolf had shown no interest in leaving his sister’s side, remaining curled beside her on the bed with his head on his paws. That worried Jon as much as anything else.

Below, the smallfolk went about their daily business as if nothing was wrong. New shipments of provisions for the winter arrived and men-at-arms went about their duties. From time to time shouts from the occasional commotion would drift up through the window but evidently none of the disputes were important enough to notify the king. Even Davos had left him alone as of late. The only people to come and go had been the Maester to change Arya’s bandages and Davie, his squire, to bring food. Jon welcomed the quiet.

Just as the thought crossed his mind a rapid knock cracked across the door. Jon sighed, knowing that duty was probably unavoidably calling at last, however, he resolved himself to wait silently just in case.

Within a minute the knocking came again, this time more insistently and before Jon could so much as open his mouth, Davie was slipping into the room, his head bowed apologetically. “Begging your pardon your Grace, but the Lady Sansa is asking to speak with you. I tried to tell her you weren’t having any visitors but she’s not having that. She says you must come out at once or she’ll have the household guard come up and drag you.”

Jon shook his head and allowed himself the slightest of smirks at the boy’s ashen face and look of panic. “It’s alright Davie, I’ll be right there.”

Jon sighed, hazarding one last look at the bed. Ghost perked his head up from his paws, then carefully climbed over his sleeping charge to stand beside the door, waiting for his master. Jon couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit of relief. If Ghost was willing to get up to hunt perhaps the worst was past.

As soon as Jon stepped across the threshold, Ghost was off, silently trotting down the corridor. Jon stayed a moment to carefully close the heavy door behind him. He didn’t make it thirty paces down the hallway before Sansa was in his face. Her posture was rigid with aggravation and her eyes smoldered when he met her gaze.

Jon froze, more than a little taken aback. 

“What is wrong with you?” she fumed.

“It’s lovely to see you too, sister,” he stammered.

“Jon we’re holding an alliance together by the skin of our teeth. You can’t just disappear for days on end. The Lords of the Vale are as good as packing their things. They think that you’ve gone mad. Rumors are swirling that you’ve taken up with some lowborn girl that showed up half dead.”

Jon winced at her description and that only seemed to fuel her fury even more.

“It’s true isn’t it?” she asked him indignantly. Jon didn’t so much as blink. All he had to do was tell Sansa the truth and the whole matter would be resolved. The gods knew that Sansa deserved to know that their younger sister was clinging to life just down the hall, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t explain it, but there was something about the fear in Arya’s eyes when she had woken up, the way that she had lied about who she was. Jon wasn’t going to share her secret until he knew what was going on. 

Sansa tried to push past him, ready to see for herself since answers didn’t seem to be forthcoming, but Jon stood fast.

“Move,” Sansa ordered him, but still Jon didn’t budge.

Sansa growled in frustration before turning on her heel and stalking back toward the stairwell from which she’d come. She was muttering under her breath as she walked and Jon could have sworn he heard the phrase “Littlefinger was right,” uttered with particular scorn.

“What did you just say?” Jon called out to her, unable to let that particular insult go.

Sansa’s shoulders stiffened, but she turned slowly back to him, her chin held high in a pure show of defiance. 

“I think you heard exactly what I said,” Sansa replied quietly, trying to keep their conversation from being overheard by unwanted ears. “You were never meant to rule, Jon. It’s not a part of your disposition. Robb and Bran and even little Rickon were raised to see the big picture, but you can’t see beyond your own desires.”

“Oh I can’t see the big picture can I?” Jon couldn’t help but let a little of his own anger seep into his voice. “The last I checked I was one of the only people in all of Westeros taking the threat beyond the Wall seriously.”

“And yet you’ve dropped everything for some harlot that showed up at the castle walls!” Sansa had to take a deep breath to compose herself and bring the volume of her voice down to a more reasonable level. “Rhaegar Targaryen’s obsession with Aunt Lyanna brought down an entire dynasty that had been ruling for centuries Jon. You’ve been in power for a matter of months.”

Jon nearly kicked the closest wall in exasperation. “So that’s it then? You’re back to siding with the man who sold you to a torturer to improve his own station over some unconfirmed gossip that you heard passing between the servants?”

Sansa sighed wearily, squeezing the bridge of her nose between two delicate fingers as if his mere presence was giving her a headache. “Of course not Jon. We’re all that’s left of the Stark line. Mother always said ‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell’ and having two working together should be to our advantage. But we need to start working together, the future of the North depends on it.”

Jon softened at her words and reached out to her. That was enough to bring the fire right back into her tone “But I cannot work with you if you choose to continue these stupid and foolhardy decisions.”

“You’re right Sansa, I wasn’t raised to rule, but you were,” Jon reminded her gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t explain it to you yet, but what I’m doing is important. I need you to try to appease the Lords of the Vale just a little bit longer and I swear to you that I will attend to them as soon as I can.”

Sansa seethed for a moment more then stepped out of his reach. “You have until the morrow,” she allowed. “I’ll do what I can until then. But if you keep this up Jon, mark my words the consequnces will be dire.” 

Jon watched her back recede until he could no longer hear the sharp rhythm of her footsteps echoing off the walls. Sansa was right of course. He had been neglecting his duty and right now was perhaps one of the worst possible times for that to happen. He wasn’t sure if there was an alternative however. With Arya in her current condition and with no clue what had caused it or if the threat was still after her he wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to perform his obligations adequately anyway. A distracted king was no better than an absent one.

The only real option was for Arya to wake up. 

He started his slow trek back to his chambers still deep in thought. When he opened the door it took him a moment to realize that his charge had in fact awakened in his absence.

Arya’s eyes were open and fixed on him but there was something off in her expression. 

He closed the door gently. “Little sister,” Jon sighed, unable to hide his relief. He strode purposefully to the bed and knelt at her side, once again taking her small hand within his own.

“Brother,” her response was cool and detached, so unlike the Arya of his youth that approached everything in life with wild abandon. She gestured weakly with her free hand for him to lean in closer. Gently, he eased her up into his embrace when, quick as a viper her hand shot to the side of his neck with surprising force. He barely registered her fingers digging painfully just beneath his chin as well as something hard and sharp pressing into his hip just beneath where his mail would end had he been wearing it, when both of her hands dropped to her sides and she lay back on the bed gasping.

Jon sat back on his haunches, still trying to register what had just happened. In the hand closest to the table, Arya loosely clutched the maester’s knife. She had been ready to stab him.

Instead of feeling betrayed and enraged, the way that he had the last time that a knife was pressed into his flesh, Jon merely felt sad. What had happened in his sister’s life to make her weary of her own blood? And perhaps worse yet, what had trained her so thoroughly to deal with a possible foe? Her movements had been precise and calculated, the blade never piercing his skin. Had she had the mind to, Jon had no doubt that he might have ended up laying gutted on the floor before he even had a hope of defending himself.

A similar play of emotion was running across Arya’s face. Resignation had changed to heartbreak as tears slowly welled in her eyes. But these were not the tears of pain that would be expected of someone in her condition. No, they were the tears of realization that your whole perception of the world was wrong; that perhaps she had been mistaken in her actions in the past; that she was being overwhelmed with the earthshattering feeling that there might actually still be some hope left.

“Jon…” she whispered quietly when she had finally caught her breath. 

All he could do was nod.

Slowly, she lifted her shaking hand back toward him as if asking permission. Without hesitation, he took her hand back within his own, giving it a firm squeeze as if to say that there was no need to apologize.

He felt her tiny fingers trace the burn patterns across his hand, as if trying to learn about the man that he had become in all of the years since they last parted.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” her voice was rough from disuse, but Jon understood it just the same. “You shouldn’t be here in Winterfell. You made it to the Wall. Father would have told me if you hadn’t. The men of the Night’s Watch are sworn to their duties for life. The Jon I knew would never have broken an oath.”

Jon managed a wry smile. “I’m not the green boy I was when we last parted ways little sister. Nor do I suspect that you are the same iron-willed, troublemaking little girl.” He tried to shrug off her assertion without further comment but he was caught within her probing gaze. “I didn’t break my vows Arya. I died at my post.”

Arya’s brow furrowed and her free hand went to her own tunic, attempting to lift the hem to see what was underneath. Jon caught her fingers with his own and placed them gently but firmly back on the bed. “Shh, little wolf. You’re alright. I was brought back to life by some form of sorcery. I hardly understand it myself. It’s a long story meant for another day.”

Arya still looked skeptical, but she allowed the topic to be dropped for now.

“And what of you, Arya? You finally come home, on death’s door and giving a false name to your own kin. What are you running from?”

Arya remained tight lipped and turned away from him, pretending to examine the furs lining the bed, as she could not meet his gaze.

Jon waited patiently, hoping that the uncomfortable silence would get to her as it would have in her youth, but she did not relent. Instead it was him that cracked. “Little wolf, I cannot help you unless you tell me what’s going on.” His voice was ragged with emotion. He had always been his sister’s protector and couldn’t imagine being powerless to defend her now. 

She mussed his hair gently. “Jon, I am and forever will be grateful to have found you again, and for whatever time we will have together. But you cannot help me.”

Jon was about to protest but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Ser Davos slipped into the room and gave a slight bow of his head. “Your Grace,” Arya raised her eyebrow at the title but did not comment, “My Lady, it is good to see you awake.”

Jon felt Arya tense beside him.

Davos continued without pause, “I’m sorry to disturb the two of you, but the Lords of the Vale are requesting Your Grace’s presence immediately.”

Jon sighed but shook his head tiredly. “They’ll wait.”

“Your Grace, I don’t think-“

Jon interrupted him, “I said they’ll wait. I’ll meet with them in the Great Hall in an hour.”

Jon could tell that Davos was biting back a response, but just the same he bowed his head and exited the room.

The second the door closed Arya was clawing at the sheets and blankets and trying to sit up while wincing in agony. “Who else knows I’m here?” she demanded.

Jon tried futilely to hold her still. “Arya, stop it you’ll hurt yourself.” She continued to struggle against him, gasping. Eventually her gasps turned to gags and then she was spitting out blood. “Arya enough!” Jon hated himself for yelling at her, but he couldn’t see how else to get through to her.

Finally she stopped and allowed him to lay her back on the bed, her chest heaving with her labored breathing. “What did you hope to accomplish?” he couldn’t help himself from berating her as he grabbed a wet cloth to clean the bloody spittle from her lips. “You came here too weak to sit a horse, with your whole body wracked with infection. I’ve sat here for 3 days watching you, begging the gods to spare your life. You finally wake up and you think you’re well enough to just up and leave because someone knows your true identity?”

Arya ground her teeth for a moment, her fiery gaze piercing his soul. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Perhaps I would if you’d just try explaining it to me.”

Arya chewed it over for another moment, tears once again coming to her eyes. ”Jon, please… I’m asking this because I’m scared. Not just for myself but for everyone in this castle. Now I’m asking you again, who else knows that I’m here?”

Jon studied her face. The fear in her eyes was real. In fact it was the first true sign of the same vulnerability she’d had as a child. He sighed, “Ser Davos Seaworth, the man who was just here - former hand of the king to Stannis and one of my advisors. He trusts next to no one and is loyal to a fault. He’ll have told no one that you’re here. Melisandre of Asshai, a Red Priestess,” something flashed in his sister’s eye at this name but Jon dismissed it as a trick of the light. “She’s confined to a cell in the dungeon and has no visitors.”

Jon thought it over a moment “Perhaps little Davie Mallister, my squire. The walls aren’t exactly thin but he spends a lot of time outside the door. But that’s it Arya. I swear to you. I haven’t even told Sansa.”

Arya’s eyebrows rose in shock. “Sansa’s alive?”

Jon grinned at her. “It would take a lot to change that I think. I can have Davie fetch her if you’d like. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see you.”

“No,” Arya answered quietly, “it’s best she doesn’t know I’m here.” Arya looked around the room, calculatedly. “Who else? You can’t expect me to believe you brought a girl to Mother and Father’s room in the middle of the Great Keep and nobody saw you. Not to mention I recognize a maester’s work when I see it.”

“Everyone else in the castle has been given the narrative that you came up with before you fell unconscious again. Your name is Mercy Snow of Karhold. You suffered some form of unspeakable violence on the road and you’re recovering under my watch.” Jon reassured her.

“You told everyone that you brought a baseborn girl whom you’ve never met before to the Lord’s quarters and that you’re looking after her personally? Gods you’re still dense Jon. Didn’t you think that might draw just a bit of undue attention?”

Jon waited out her little tirade patiently. He could tell by her demeanor that she was just as mad at herself as she was at him. Though for what, he couldn’t say. “Well, what do you suggest that I do instead?”

Arya let out a frustrated groan. “Nothing now. It’s too late.” She kept her gaze firmly averted from him but he could tell that her anger was quickly dissipating. They never had been able to stay mad at each other.

Jon waited for her to go on, hoping that she might give him some hint of what was happening or what it was that she expected of him, but she stubbornly remained silent, absently toying with a threadbare section of the sheets. Jon sighed.

After a moment he stood from his place, dusting off his breeches. “It’s well past time that you ate. I’ll send Davie for some honeyed water. I wish I could give you something more substantial- you must be starving. But Maester Callies won’t let you have anything solid until you’ve healed a little more.”

Arya’s nose wrinkled in distaste at the very thought of food, but she steeled herself nonetheless, obviously knowing she needed to regain her strength. Jon spoke quietly to his young squire just outside the doorway and the boy nodded his head once with a mumbled “Yes, Your Grace,” before backing away from the bedchamber. He kept his gaze lowered the whole time as if afraid of what he might see. Jon stared after him slightly puzzled.

“Your Grace?” Arya questioned from the bed almost teasingly, but there were real questions behind her gaze. 

Jon gave her a wry smile shaking his head. “King in the North or so they say.” He lowered his gaze. “Much and more has changed since you rode South all those years ago sister. I didn’t ask for this. But now is not the time for such tales,” he sighed. Coming to the bed once more he gently fluffed her pillows and ensured that the sheets were tucked back around her properly. He could tell that she was fighting a retort about him mothering her but somehow she managed to hold her tongue.

“I’m afraid that I’ve been putting my duties off too long. You’ll be safe here Arya I swear to you. There are guards posted throughout the Keep and all of them my trusted men. If you need anything at all Davie will get it for you, please don’t hesitate to ask. I shouldn’t be too long.” But the worry lines etched into his face told her that he didn’t truly believe it. 

Jon placed a firm kiss on her forehead then strode purposefully toward the door. Before he crossed the threshold he paused and looked back at her, lying in the bed with her small fists clenched and her brow furrowed. Even in her weakened state there was a fierceness about her- but also a deep-seated worry. “We _will_ talk when I get back.” Jon said to her quietly, letting her know that it hadn’t slipped his notice that she had somehow managed to avoid answering a single one of his questions.

Arya made no reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... not the most exciting chapter, but the new relationships between the Stark siblings needed to be set up. Nobody trusts anyone anymore... which is fine considering that they are very different people than they were when they were children. There is action coming I promise! Thanks so much for all of the love on the first chapter, I hope that you enjoyed this one as well!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a belated Christmas Miracle! No more excuses on why it takes me forever to update. All I can say is that life is busy. At least I update more frequently than GRRM!

Arya’s strength was returning, but not nearly as fast as she wanted it to. She felt as if she were rotting, confined to Jon’s chambers. If only she had managed to bring a few faces with her from Braavos she would be able to leave at her leisure, at least at the times when Davie wasn’t at his post outside her door. Though those times were admittedly few.

She supposed she could make some faces of her own. There were corpses enough just outside Winterfell’s walls waiting to be burnt, their decay slowed by the harsh weather that had been worsening daily - but she was finally back amongst her own people. She couldn’t bring herself to desecrate them in such a way… not to mention the questions that the suddenly faceless bodies would bring. It also wouldn’t do for someone to recognize their dead sibling wandering around.

Instead she had been resigned to leaving the Keep only under the cover of night. Jon had had a cot moved into his chambers to be near her as he slept. Luckily for her he still slept like the dead most nights as he had in their childhood and she was able to sneak off fairly easily.

Jon had left Needle on the vanity, and almost every night she would sneak off to the Godswood, to practice her water dancing in front of the watchful gaze of the heart tree. Sometimes it almost felt as if it were her father watching her instead, like he used to from the covered bridge outside the Great Keep.

It was slow going at first. Her movements awkward and punctuated by grunts and winces every time she twisted in a way that her healing injuries didn’t appreciate. But she was slowly gaining her grace back. It was still a far cry from sparring with an opponent but at least she was on the way.

Each night she would take a different path back to the lord’s chambers, visiting the armory, the crypts, the broken tower where Bran had fallen. So much of it had changed in the years that she had been absent, and yet it was so familiar that it jarred back memories that she thought had been long forgotten.

Jon helping her with her archery and swordsmanship in the courtyard outside the First Keep when no one was watching… the look of surprise on Robb’s face when she hit the target… climbing with Bran, bickering with Sansa, even helping little Rickon take rides on his pony. She missed the easy life when her family had not been splintered, and she would forever curse Robert Baratheon for ruining it.

Too bad he had perished before she’d had a chance to make her list.

No matter where her late night jaunts brought her, the castle guard remained none the wiser. They were incompetent at best. Arya would have had a stern talk with Jon about it if it wouldn’t have revealed her secret activities. Nonetheless, she’d have to mention it before she decided to move on.

Last night, as she made her way back to the great keep she had made an interesting discovery. One that she was keen to take a closer look at – the glint of fiery red hair barely visible through the bars over the dungeon window as she had passed the Guards Hall.

Lucky for her Jon would be spending most of the day trying to satiate the Knights of the Vale who were impatient to return south to their homes in the absence of an imminent battle. Her brother had apologized profusely to her that she would have to remain bored and alone in his chambers all day and made her a promise that he would return as soon as it could be considered socially acceptable.

Arya thought she had played the role of disappointed yet understanding sister well enough. Jon wasn’t likely to suspect something anyway, it simply wasn’t in his nature.

Not long after Jon had left, Arya was slipping past the heavy wooden door. She was mildly surprised to see that Davie had followed her brother. So much the better, he was one less obstacle in her way.

After checking a final time to see if the coast was clear, she slid quietly into what she assumed was Sansa’s maids quarters and quickly found a plain looking dress to wear, and a heavy hooded cloak to slip over top. She wasn’t overly concerned with a disguise. Out of all of her late night adventures so far she still had yet to see a familiar face within the castle walls. And besides, one of the many lessons that Arya had learned in Braavos was that the upper class was remarkably blind to the common folk around them. All she needed to do was dress herself in servants’ clothes and her face would melt into the same sea as everyone else’s.

Gingerly she hurried past the armory keeping her head down in case anyone were to give her more than a passing glance. At the entrance to the Guards Hall she grabbed an empty basket and shook the snow from it. Once inside she began picking up discarded breeches and tunics as if gathering the laundry should anyone question the presence of a young girl in the men’s quarters. She needn’t have worried – the halls were near deserted.

At the bottom the stairs she met her first obstacle – the guard on duty. She couldn’t kill him, he was a member of her family’s household and had done nothing to deserve such a fate. She briefly considered charming him into submission, but her time learning from the courtesans in Braavos had been brief and flirting had never been her strong suit. With a sigh, she hoisted the load of clothing higher on her hip and strode forward knowing she would just have to play things by ear.

At the sound of her footsteps the guard’s head snapped up. “Who goes there?” He demanded, his mail clad hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“The laundry service,” Arya answered meekly, still keeping her head bowed under her hood. It would be best if the man would be unable to identify her later. “The Lady Sansa has complained of the smell from the men in the barracks.”

“Well you’ll find no men who’d have reason to go anywhere near the Lady down here. Only prison-“ He was cut off as Arya shoved the crate at his midsection instantly winding him and causing him to crumple forward. Swift as a deer, she reached behind the guard’s back claiming the lantern that he had left unattended and with a practiced hand, smashed it into the back of his skull with just enough force for him to lose consciousness.

The guard’s body crumpled to the floor. Arya was left trying to catch her own breath, even this small skirmish taking a lot out of her. After only a few seconds her mind cleared and her breath came easy again. Crouching beside the guard’s body, she lifted the heavy ring of keys from his belt and picked up the lantern once more to guide her down the dark stone tunnel.

At the end of the hall, a long thin shadow paced back and forth across the light thrown from a wall torch.

Arya made her way silently and hid herself just out of view from the bars.

It was her. The same Red Priestess she had encountered in the woods all those years ago. The very same one from her list.

“There’s no sense in hiding. I know that you’re out there,” Melisandre called out to her, her voice steady and self-assured.

Arya stepped forward and was immediately entranced by the light of the fire dancing in the Red Woman’s eyes.

“An assassin who hides behind the faces of others. And yet you come to me without disguise. This must be personal.” Melisandre stayed near the back wall of her cell, her hands folded within the long sleeves of her scarlet robes.

“You took him away. He was all I had left,” Arya seethed. Her hand subtly reached between the folds of her skirt.

“Your blacksmith boy already had one foot out the door if I remember correctly. He was meaning to leave you to join the Brotherhood Without Banners.” Melisandre told her matter-of-factly. “But it’s of no consequence anyway. If the sin that you hold against me is this boy’s death, I’ll be pleased to tell you that he is alive and well. He escaped and has probably fucked half the whores in King’s Landing by now if he takes after his father at all.”

Arya’s hand stilled, disbelieving. But it was true. She could read it in the woman’s eyes. Gendry had escaped but he hadn’t come back for her. He was yet another person to have left her.

The Red Woman’s triumphant smile at her hesitation pricked Arya’s resolve. She shook her head as if to clear it. “Do you really expect me to believe that Gendry was your only sin? If that were true then why is it that Ser Davos hates you so much?”

At this Melisandre’s demeanor changed, allowing some of her hidden fear to show through. “It was a mistake,” she muttered.

Arya continued as if she hadn’t spoken, advancing menacingly towards the door of the cell. “I may not have been here long, but the House of Black and White taught me to always be observant. The man hates you. He wishes you a fate worse than death. And from what little I know about the man they call the Onion Knight, he is honorable to a fault. So tell me, what despicable thing could you have done to provoke such a man?”

Arya slipped the heavy iron key into the lock then slid into the room, shutting the cell door silently behind her.

Melisandre backed up until she ran into the cold stone of the wall, then continued to shrink back as much as she physically could. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. She then appeared to try to change tactics, straightening and holding her hands up defensively. “You don’t want to do this girl. Your brother has need of me in the wars to come. If you do this you are dooming everyone.”

Arya stopped mere inches from her face, “I don’t believe you.”

Before the priestess could so much as flinch, Arya pulled the maester’s knife she had filched weeks ago from the folds of her skirt. She had briefly considered bringing Needle for the task, however the sword was too cumbersome to easily hide within a common girl’s uniform and she could probably count on two hands the number men in the North who fought with a bravos blade. It would be too obvious.

Arya launched herself onto the woman and began stabbing her torso repeatedly as the priestess fell to the ground. It was almost as if Melisandre had simply given in to her fate, as she made no attempt to fight back. Arya paid it no mind as she continually repeated the motion, pushing the blade in and pulling it back out as if she were in some sort of trance.

Eventually she was pulled out of her stupor by the sound of the guard beginning to stir down the hallway. Arya blinked hard, trying to focus and catch her breath. She had forgotten how exhausting it was to kill someone - even more so in her current condition. “Valar morghulis,” she whispered as she stumbled to her feet and allowed the bloodied knife to clatter to the stone floor below. Hurriedly she wiped her hands on her already soiled dress and scrambled for the cell keys. She locked the iron bars in place behind her and tucked the key ring back into the guard’s pocket before his eyelids had a chance to flutter open.

Without a backward glance she faltered her way up the steps and back through the deserted barracks. Stepping out into the brisk air she found that once again the Many Faced God must have been smiling down upon her as her hasty retreat would be covered by a thick ice fog that had rolled in.

Her side ached as if she had pulled something and she still couldn’t catch her breath but she pushed herself to stagger on, crossing the courtyard and sneaking her way back into the Great Keep. When at last she made it back to Jon’s chambers she could barely focus.

Distantly she knew that she should wash herself, hide the evidence, but she was simply too exhausted. She collapsed onto the bed and allowed the darkness to take her.

***

“As I’m certain you’ve noticed Your Grace, winter is here. If we do not leave soon the mountain passes will all be blocked. You cannot expect us to leave our women and children undefended to defend a land under the threat of invasion from grumkins and snarks.” Bronze Yohn Royce admonished from his spot at one of the lower tables.

Jon prayed for patience even though it had long since grown thin. They had been in the middle of the same circular argument for hours, and long before that as well. He stood from his place at the head table and leaned forward on his outstretched hands hoping to finally get his point across once and for all. “I cannot force you to stay. It is ultimately the choice of you and your men. However, I _can_ assure that the threat beyond the wall is no mere fairytale. It is real. I’ve seen it. I’ve fought it. I’ve watched my own brothers be slaughtered by it. The only chance that any of us has is if we stand together. No amount of snow or ice will stop the White Walkers from scaling the mountains and destroying your homes and everything that you hold dear. Do you want it to come to that?”

Lord Royce stood from his spot as well, his voice rising. “And yet you still offer no proof!”

The large man was cheered by grunts of agreement and the clanging of half filled steins against the long wood tables. Jon held up his hand to call the hall back to order, but before the din had a chance to calm down, his attention was drawn to the doors of the Great Hall as they banged open. Two guards stood in the entryway looking pale faced. One of them spoke to Davie and the boy nodded before hurrying to his side. Jon gave Davos a look, before turning away from the noisy hall to give his squire his full attention.

“Your Grace,” Davie whispered hurriedly, “there has been an incident in the cells. Your presence is required immediately.”

Jon sighed, but straightened nonetheless and banged his own stein on the table to call for everyone’s attention. “My lords, I regret to inform you that I am currently needed elsewhere. I trust that we can continue this discussion at a later date. Until then you are welcome to continue to enjoy Winterfell’s hospitality. My sister Sansa will ensure that all of your needs are met.”

The level of noise in the hall once again rose to an outraged roar, but Jon had no choice but to let it be. He pushed back his chair nodding to both Davos and Tormund, then followed Davie from the hall.

The men set a brisk pace across the castle courtyard, their boots heavily imprinting the freshly fallen snow. “What happened?” Jon asked, getting right to business.

“We’re not sure Your Grace,” one of the guards answered timidly. "The fog has been thick and the yard has been heavy with shipments from White Harbor all day.” The man paused to open the door to the Guards Hall for his king, then continued. “Vernon here went to take his shift in the dungeon and he found Reg out cold. And the priestess…”

“She escaped?” Jon questioned sharply, seeing Davos tense beside him.

“No, Your Grace,” the other guard, Vernon, answered grimly. But before Jon could question him further they’d arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

There was dirty laundry strewn across the hall, and a young maiden crouched beside the desk holding a bloodied cloth to the back of a guardsmen’s head. Jon assumed this must be Reg. He squatted in front of the man. “Did you get a look at who did this?”

The young man winced. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. She was so quick it was almost as if she were a ghost.”

Tormund guffawed behind him. “Ye let a girl get the best of you, did ye? Did she get the best of yer pecker too?”

Jon held up a hand to cut off his friend’s jibes as his attention was caught by quiet murmurs coming from the furthest cell.

Jon stood, signaling Davie and the two guards to wait in the entranceway, while Tormund and Davos continued to follow him. The further they went down the hall, the thicker the scent of blood became until Jon felt as if he could almost taste it. As he approached the cell he found the iron key hanging from the lock and Maester Callies working inside it over a slight form lying in a large pool of blood. “Gods,” Jon muttered holding the sleeve of his tunic to his nose.

“Well I cannot say I’m sorry to see her go,” Davos commented, peering over the maester’s shoulder to evaluate the damage for himself.

“She isn’t dead,” Maester Callies’ voice startled them all as he continued to work. “Any normal man couldn’t stand to survive this much blood loss, but she must be using some kind of magic – the likes of which I must say I have never seen before – to sustain herself.”

“Mother have Mercy,” Davos muttered under his breath, and even Tormund looked as if he had seen a ghost.

Once Jon regained his composure he knelt at the maester’s side to examine for himself what had occurred. “She was stabbed. Several times. This was personal…. And full of rage.” Jon’s gut clenched, remembering his own stabbing very clearly.

“Aye,” Maester Callies added. “And whoever it was, they used my knife. I noticed it missing about a week ago but found it here lying bloody at her side.”

“Who could the old broad have pissed off? Hasn’t she burned near everyone in the North who’s had the sense to have disagreed with her?” Tormund asked.

Subconsciously, Jon felt his eyes slipping to Davos, and he noticed the maester do the same.

Ser Davos looked at both men, then gave a humorless laugh. “I’ve been with you all day Your Grace. But aye, you’re right, I did want to see the witch dead. And whoever did this will be getting my thanks should they be caught.”

Jon sighed, at a loss. The castle was short staffed as it was, not to mention that he needed every man to spend every available minute working on their training for the coming war. They didn’t have the resources to be looking for a potential murderer in their midst. He hoped that this incident would be a one off. There wasn’t much that they could do.

Standing up, Jon called down the hallway for the guards. “Vernon, you’re to take the Lady Melisandre to the Maester’s Turret for her continued care. Set up a guard rotation to ensure that no further harm comes to her.” He could almost feel Davos itching to protest beside him so he added, “As soon as she is well enough to travel she is to be exiled from the North. My life’s debt to her has been repaid.”

The men saluted him then hurried out of the cell carrying Melisandre between them, with the maester following close behind.

It was only once the crowd in the small room began to thin that he noticed Tormund crouched to examine the floor just outside of the cell.

“There are footprints smeared in blood. We may be able to find yer killer yet,” the large man informed him.

Just then Davie came bursting down the hallway. “Your Grace! There are bloody footprints in the snow outside! They look like they’re headed for the Great Keep.”

Jon’s heart instantly dropped.

 _Arya_.

He thought back to Melisandre’s wounds…. stab wounds, in the gut. His sister was in danger.

Without so much as a word to his men, Jon raced out of the barracks and towards his quarters. He could hear Tormund and Davos shouting after him, but their worries were inconsequential in comparison to what he might find.

He took the stairs to his solar two at a time and threw open the doors to see his little sister lying motionless, facedown on his bed.

“Arya!” he cried. He ran to her and flipped her over. The front of the dark woolen dress she wore was soaked through with blood. He gathered her into his arms and stroked her cheek with one of his gloved hands. Her eye opened and blinked groggily up at him.

He turned to the men who were gathering in his doorway. “Someone get Maester Callies. Now.”

Arya’s eyes seemed to snap into focus at that. She pushed away from him and got to her feet with only the slightest of winces. Jon was unable to move from the bed, utterly baffled.

Arya turned to Davos and Tormund - both of which looked just as confused as Jon felt. “That won’t be necessary. I’m in good health.”

Davos sputtered, “but the blood My Lady.”

Arya looked down at her soiled garments and then openly cursed. “It isn’t mine.”

Davos still looked confused but Tormund openly guffawed. “Arya, eh? So this is the sister you’ve been hiding from us, Snow? She’s got fire in her. She’d make a good wildling.”

Arya turned resignedly back to her brother and gave him an apologetic look, just like she would when she had been younger and her mother would catch her practicing her swordsmanship.

Jon sighed. “Leave us, and speak nothing of this to anyone,” he ordered the other men. They both nodded, and Jon could hear Tormund’s rumbling laughter echo down the hall as they exited the room.

When the door thudded closed behind them, he stood reaching for his sister’s hands. “What happened?”

She pulled away once again, heading for the basin near the window. He watched as she poured water onto her stained hands and began to scrub at them furiously. “I’ve gotten sloppy, that’s what happened,” he heard her mumble under her breath.

“Arya?” he questioned when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to turn around to speak to him.

His sister’s shoulders tensed, but then she let out her breath in a rush and turned to meet his gaze. “There’s much that you don’t know about the girl that I’ve become Jon.”

“So then I encourage you once again to explain it to me,” Jon allowed just the slightest bit of his frustration to show through.

Arya turned away once again and began to remove her soiled garments.

“What did Melisandre do to you Arya?” When she didn’t answer, simply continuing her task of picking up the dress and cloak from the floor and taking it towards the large hearth, he relented a bit. “I’m not mad, little sister. I only want to understand.”

“She took someone away from me. A smith from Flea Bottom named Gendry. He was all I had left.”

Jon frowned, “And she killed this Gendry?”

“No,” Arya huffed. She stuffed the dress into the roaring flames and watched as the fabric slowly caught fire. “She just took him away.”

Jon allowed his irritation to come back. “So you stabbed her repeatedly with a stolen knife until her blood filled her cell?”

“You weren’t there Jon!” Arya whirled on him, and Jon couldn’t help but take a step back from the look of rage and torment on her face. “ _You_ didn’t hear the crowds cheer as father’s head hit the ground in front of the Sept of Baelor. _You_ didn’t hear the screams at the Red Wedding, or watch them desecrate Robb’s body. I was a little girl and I had _no one_. I did what I needed to do to survive. I made a list of everyone who had ever wronged our family. I made a vow to seek revenge on everyone on that list. Gendry had been with me since Yoren smuggled me out of King’s Landing. He became like family. So when the Red Woman took him away to use for her own nefarious purposes, yes she was added to my list.”

Jon could see tears beginning to form in his sister’s eyes. He took a small step toward her once again and held out his hand in a calming gesture. “Little Wolf, I-“

“No, Jon. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

Jon took her firmly by both shoulders and forced her to look into his eyes. “You’re right. I will never fully grasp everything that you went through. But I do understand revenge, or what some would call justice.” Jon sighed and brought her back to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. Reaching behind her he grabbed one of the furs and wrapped it around her shoulders knowing that she must be growing cold standing in only her small clothes.

“I told you before that I had died once… that wasn’t the full story. I was murdered by my fellow brothers of the Night’s Watch.” Jon saw his sister’s face stiffen with rage once again, so he was quick to continue. “When I was brought back to life I was given my justice. I hung all of the men responsible, one of them was little more than a boy. Even Sansa has had her brush with revenge, killing the man who tormented her. I can tell you with confidence that it changes nothing. Those who are dead are not coming back and the hurts we have suffered will always be with us.”

The only way that Jon could describe his sister’s reaction to his words was acknowledgement. She knew he was speaking the truth. He made the decision to push her further. “These people on your list, you intend to kill them all?”

Arya’s eyes flashed and she was quick to answer. “Yes,” She looked away. “Maybe… I don’t know any longer.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment collecting their thoughts.

“It has been my sole purpose for as long as I can remember,” she relented. “Even if it doesn’t change anything, it’s what I know. It’s what I’ve spent all of these years training for.”

“Training?” Jon questioned her.

Arya nodded. “After I escaped the Hound, for the first time I was free to choose where I wanted to go. I thought about going north to the Wall but I was afraid… afraid that you wouldn’t want me anymore after the things I’d done. Instead, by chance, I boarded a ship headed for Braavos and eventually found myself on the doorstep of the House of Black and White.”

“The House of Black and White? I’ve heard tales of the place. Isn’t that where-?”

“Where the Faceless Men train, yes,” Arya interrupted him, snuggling down into the blankets to get more comfortable. “I’m not one of them,” she added, “I never completed my training. I couldn’t let go of who I was. But I did learn a lot.”

Jon’s mind reeled. He thought back to every interaction he’d had with her since he’d found her again. Things started to fall into place. “And these Faceless Men, they’re the ones who are after you now?”

Arya grimaced. “I’d assume so. I can’t be sure that they followed me from Braavos, but they don’t take too kindly to having their secrets potentially revealed.”

Jon’s hand instinctively went to her stomach, running over the nearly healed wounds under the blanket. “Wouldn’t trained assassins have a cleaner, more reliable way of killing?”

Arya bit back a bitter laugh. “They kill in whatever way is convenient to them and will draw the least suspicion.”

Jon swallowed, his throat feeling thick with worry. “They won’t find you here.”

Arya rolled her eyes, getting up from the bed and heading back to the window. “Of course they will. I’ve already made too many mistakes.”

Jon got up from the bed as well, standing beside her and examining her reflection in the glass. “Then what do you intend to do? Go off into the woods alone in the dead of winter still so weak that you collapse after fighting only one woman and yet somehow expect to defend yourself from an elite pack of remorseless killers?”

“Why do you still care?” she bristled, her body heaving with held in sobs. “After everything you’ve just discovered about me and knowing that’s not even half of the despicable things I’ve done, how can you still want me?”

“There isn’t a single thing you could do that would make me not want you Arya.” Jon spun her around to face him and pulled her face to rest against his chest. Resting his chin on the top of her head, he stroked her hair gently just as he would when she was a child and waited for her cries to quiet. “I’m not upset with you for a single thing that you’ve done Little Wolf,” he whispered to her softly. “If anything I’m thankful because it kept you alive long enough to bring you back to me. The only thing that angers me is that I wasn’t there at your side to share your burden.”

Arya stayed in his arms without protest still trying to compose herself. _Calm as still water_.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords_.

For the first time she thought she might truly understand what Syrio had meant by that.

Eventually she allowed herself to look up into Jon’s dark, worried eyes. “I’ll stay,” she whispered to him.

 _For now_ , she added in her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it. (Most of) Arya's secrets have been revealed. Jon shared some of his as well. This chapter turned out much different than intended and I'm still not totally happy with it, although I do think it turned out more true to the characters. I hope you enjoyed! :)


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